Delphine stood up. ‘You’re very kind, Monsieur.’

She looked out of the window, in silence again, and Anton felt his life hang on her decision.

At last she turned to him and said, ‘Perhaps we should try the theatre for a change.’

Standing next to her, Anton put his hand on her forearm and kissed her cheek.

Then he turned and made his way quickly to the door. ‘You must let me know,’ he said. ‘On Tuesday, when I come again.’

‘Are you leaving?’

‘Yes. Yes, I have to go now.’

‘What about Erich’s lesson?’

Anton never afterwards remembered the details of the first time he made love to Delphine. He was too startled by the fact it was happening to be able to record each element. In retrospect, years later, he often wished his memory had mentally photographed her skin as it emerged from the layers of clothes. He ought really to have been able to carry a clear picture of the woman he had come to love, naked in front of him for the first time.

After yet another concert – fifth, sixth, seventh – he had spirited her upstairs to his room on the pretext of lending her a book. ‘Rilke,’ he lied. ‘I’ve just bought his New Poems.’

‘Anton, I am rather overwhelmed by you,’ was all she said, standing in his room, her arms spread wide, in stockinged feet, her shoes in one hand so as not to alert the landlady.

‘I can’t find the book.’

She put down the shoes and took the pins from her hair, so it rested on her shoulders. He kissed her upper lip, then licked it. She touched his tongue with hers.

‘Undo these hooks on my dress. That’s the best way.’

He swallowed and took off his jacket.

She ran her hands over the small of his back and pulled him against her.

‘Shall I turn off the light?’

‘No. Stay here.’

She told him then how much she had thought about him. Night and day, apparently. They sat on the edge of the bed. Delphine took his hand while she explained something.

Then she spoke for a long time, patting his hand occasionally, her freed hair falling down over her cheek, like a small girl’s. His presence had surprised her that first day, she said … as if she had been caught swimming naked in a lake. She had been embarrassed, defensive, but in some way – she stumbled on the word – aroused. His sincerity, his lack of money, his politeness to Katrin, which had made her, Delphine, laugh inside … Obviously he had wanted the girl to go home and leave them alone that first evening after the Mahler symphony in that awful restaurant …

She laughed, then grew serious again and squeezed his hand.

‘And then the articles of yours I’ve read. Do you know how remarkable they are?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve read them all. So clear, so calm. And a kind of stubborn fairness that shines through everything.’